What the Beauty Is
by AChurningTwister
Summary: 100 Light in the Piazza drabbles. Musicalverse.
1. 001 Beginnings

**Florence**  
001. Beginnings

A thrill ran up her spine as she stepped out into the familiar piazza, her body tingling with half-buried memories. This, _this_ was the city where she had spent her first blissful weeks of married life, her hand cradled tentatively in Roy's as they strolled the streets of Florence. Here – not so long ago, it seemed – she had fumbled and faltered through her first sentences in Italian, making the locals laugh good-naturedly at her clumsy greetings.

Everything around her reminded her of the first time she had entered this very square, the sunlight glancing off the rooftops and filling her with a strange, sweet rapture.

Then, venturing even further back, she wistfully remembered how Roy had first smiled at her across the room all those years ago…

A passing man tipped his hat to her and Margaret Johnson, lost in memory, blushed as if it were the first time all over again.


	2. 026 Teammates

**Guilt**  
026. Teammates

Margaret sat stony-faced in her straight-backed chair, eyes lost in the depths of her empty teacup. Somewhere in front of her, she faintly heard the words "brain damaged" and "mentally retarded".

_This is my Clara you're talking about, not some gibbering imbecile. It's just a slight concussion, that's all. She'll be fine. She__ has to be._

Still the faraway voice carried on about "abnormal emotional development" and how "she may never recover". Margaret blinked and worried the handle of her cup. She felt Dr. Carp's hand brush her shoulder, but she did not see the face etched with uncertainty as he gazed at her. What _was_ one supposed to say in such situations?

"Clara's case is not a lost cause, but you must understand that I require full co-operation from both Mr. Johnson and yourself."

_It's all my fault. I should never have turned away. I don't deserve to be a mother. All my fault. My fault. My fault._

"The important thing is that parents and specialists work as a team during the recuperation process. It's the only way, Mrs Johnson...Mrs Johnson?"

The teacup shattered on the carpet as the first tear rolled down Margaret's cheek.


	3. 011 Red

**Wounds**  
011. Red

Peculiar, how Clara didn't bleed. She lay comatose on a pristine green lawn, her dress unstained, as Roy tried to calm the pony. The only sign was a poppy bruise blooming where she had been kicked. For days the bruise refused to fade and the doctors whispered about internal bleeding in the brain. So Margaret was relieved when the discolouration gradually ebbed, leaving only a faint, round scar.

But for weeks afterwards, Margaret was a constant vision in red; crimson dresses, raspberry gloves, plum-coloured scarves. Unseemly, snorted the neighbours, with her only child close to death. It was speculated that the unfortunate woman, in a frenzy of guilt, was trying to atone for her daughter's accident through baptism in a sea of scarlet. Blood for blood. But surely not; Mrs Johnson was a sensible woman, wasn't she?


	4. 090 Home

**Lucky  
**090. Home

When they were first married, she would rest her head lightly on his shoulder in the night and dream of their years to come. She wanted a fine house, it was true, but she wanted other things too: unexpected flowers and spontaneous embraces; an arm snaking around her waist as she stirred the pot; the gurgle of a baby as he bounced it on his knee. Not just a house - a home.

Now she had her fine house, her expensive dresses, her stylish hats. A son snored lightly in the cradle at night and chuckled in his mother's arms by day. Giuseppe brought her roses on her birthday, and she blushed coquettishly whenever he called her _cara_ in company.

Yet she pretended not to notice when his eye rested just a little too long on yet another pretty young thing in the piazza. When he stumbled through the door in the early mornings, reeking of alcohol and cheap perfume, she dove under the covers and pretended to be asleep. She considered packing up and leaving but something always tugged her back; instead, she merely kept her silence and clung to him tighter the nights when he was home.

* * *

"How lucky you are. How truly happy you must be," all her friends murmured enviously. 

Franca just smiled ruefully.


	5. 058 Dinner

**Sposato  
**058. Dinner

One night, as she grapples with a slice of tough meat, he takes the opportunity to study her across the dinner table.

Whether it's a trick of the light or not, he cannot say; but where he once saw only beautiful eyes, he now notices the tiny wrinkles lurking in the corners. He notes the way her lips purse as she grimaces with effort, but her still-rosy cheeks escape his attention. And though they used to be his greatest joys, her trim figure and milky complexion no longer allure him. His meal temporarily forgotten, he probes for the meaning of this frost suddenly creeping into his heart, as he does on those many sleepless nights with her body curled into his...

She looks up and Fabrizio lowers his gaze to his plate, suddenly ashamed.

* * *

A/N: Surprised? As the title suggests ("married" in Italian), this is set post-musical. 


	6. 092 Christmas

**Blessings  
**092. Christmas  
_(Merry Christmas everyone!)_

It's Clara's first Christmas after the incident - a Yuletide blessing in itself, Margaret muses. The tiny unconscious girl in the hospital bed couldn't seem further from the child now grunting and writhing gleefully at the sight of presents. After all, Christmas _is_ a time of miracles.

But when one box is opened to reveal a toy pony - sent by some tactless acquaintance - a lump rises to Margaret's throat. For what seems like an eternity, Clara scrutinises the gift with narrowed eyes, her lips quivering...

Then she swiftly pops its head into her mouth and sucks, eyes gleaming impishly. Margaret gently takes the plaything away and dabs at the drool on her daughter's new dress with the towel beside her. She wonders, not for the first time, if Clara's memory loss is truly a blight or a blessing in disguise.


	7. 063 Summer

**Mischief**  
063. Summer

Summer had officially made its arrival in Winston-Salem. Plants shrivelled, dogs grizzled ill-naturedly and clothes clung to sticky bodies. Even Margaret was beginning to find Clara's crankiness contagious.

"Now you stay right here," she muttered, plonking her daughter onto the swing. "And don't get up to any mischief." But Clara was too young to understand, or too obstinate to comply. Once Margaret had retreated to fetch a pitcher of lemonade, she wiggled to her feet and waddled down the garden path, straw hat balanced precariously atop.

Margaret dallied in the coolness of the house, closing her eyes and fanning herself with a newspaper that smugly heralded 'the hottest summer in twenty years'. The heat was making her head spin. Just as well she could not see Clara crouching in the wilting petunia bed, one chubby thumb crushing an ant into the earth and bearing it to her mouth.


	8. 074 Dark

**Nightmare**  
074 Dark

"Well, it's not like we didn't know it would happen, dearie. I mean, with her husband as he is..." Margaret twined the telephone cord absent-mindedly around her finger, turning as she did so. Raising her eyes to the window, she let out a sudden cry and dropped the phone, all thought of gossip effaced.

_The senses blending and overflowing dizzyingly. Harsh orange screams - flat echoes of the pony's keening - cloaking stink of fear and futility - the taste of briny helplessness - useless hands imploring, but to whom? Golden leaves spiralling serenely, refuting the terror of the moment. Roy: "For God's sake woman, get a grip!" And the image that would haunt her forever: Clara crumpling to the ground, face painfully tranquil. Then the relief of cool, black obscurity..._

Margaret jerked bolt upright, panting. She clutched at the sheets, disoriented by the sudden darkness and the emptiness of the double bed before she remembered that Roy was on a business trip. She could hear Clara twisting and moaning in her cot, gripped by another nighttime convulsion. A terrible desolation overcame her; she buried her face in her coverlet for a few minutes before rising to tend to her daughter.


	9. 031 Sunrise

**Morning**  
031. Sunrise

Margaret was usually the first in the house to rise, a lone figure on the gloomy verandah, ready to greet the sun. This morning had but one addition: Clara, who did not share her mother's enthusiasm for early starts. She teetered groggily in the doorway, still too sleep-intoxicated to protest being awoken at this hour.

As a fiery strip of light peeked over the crest of the hill, Margaret speculated briefly, foolishly, if Roy was also gazing out his hotel window, watching dawn break. Inch by inch, the night melted into an inky mauve as the sky was daubed first auburn, strawberry pink, then a watery yellow, fragile as an egg yolk. The distant rooftops emerged, sunlight winking off their tiles in full splendour. Though the sunrise always took her breath away, this morning's was one of unparalleled beauty.

"Isn't it just magnificent, darling?" she whispered, transfixed.

But Clara was curled up in a chair, fast asleep.

* * *

A/N: Sorry for taking so long between updates; I'm running low on inspiration but I promise I'm already brainstorming for the next few drabbles (and maybe some other stories). Thank you so much to the reviewers for your patience and for your feedback! 


	10. 038 Touch

**Hands Touch, Eyes Meet**  
038. Touch

The steam from coffee cups wavered; leaves skittered noisily along the pavement. A man cursed, battling to shake his newspaper out and trying to jam his hat onto his head. The breeze coiled around Clara, teasing the hem of her skirt. It playfully fingered the loose strands of her hair, toyed with the trimming of her hat, and then abruptly snatched it off her head. Letting out a cry, she ran in pursuit as her hat soared high over the fountains and statues, further and further out of reach…

Fabrizio swivelled around in the direction of the shout. At first he saw nothing, only the shop banners flapping limply in the dying wind. Something floated towards him; instinctively, he reached out and caught it. He caught it just as _she_ came into view, golden hair streaming out behind her, cheeks prettily flushed…

She panted to a halt, breathing hard. He waited for her to catch her breath, then held the hat out shyly. "Fabrizio Naccarelli," he said. Again, louder this time, "Fabrizio Naccarelli."

She reached out for it. "Clara."

Their eyes met, and their hands brushed together for one fleeting moment.


	11. 046 Star

**Memory**  
046. Star

She remembers. When she was only a _ragazza_, on her eighth birthday, Nonna gave her a brooch in the shape of a star: pure silver, with a tiny diamond right in the centre. A scarce treasure during the war. She watched it shimmer in the sunlight, and thought then that it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

She remembers. When she was eighteen, those long sultry evenings in the park when they first met. One night, he pointed to the heavens and whispered in her ear about the eternity of the stars. She looked up at the dark velvet sky, and then he kissed her and told her that she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Love is fickle, brooches are easily lost, and the street lamps now outshine the stars themselves. But the stars themselves are eternal, and she still remembers that night of shining, glittering diamonds, the most beautiful things she has ever seen.


	12. 003 Endings

**Ever After**  
003. Ends

"And then what happened?" Clara murmured drowsily, tossing her head on her pillow. Her mother seemed to flicker and glow in the lamplight as she struggled to keep her eyes from closing, valiantly resisting sleep even as it threatened to pull her consciousness down, down, down...

"And they all lived happily ever after," Margaret concluded, shutting the book with a decisive thud. A brisk peck on the cheek to stay any further questions from her weary daughter and then the light finally snapped off.

* * *

Alone in the room, she dries her eyes, picking up the powder puff with trembling hands and gingerly painting over the streaks.

_I can't leave you._

Yes you can.

A sudden rush of panic at the altar, she turns, scanning the pews for Margaret's familiar face. Her mother, sitting up the back, meets her eye and smiles. A pang chokes her and her eyes sting viciously once more.

Fabrizio takes her hand as the priest pauses for breath. Disconcerted by her tears, he clasps it almost timidly, his thumb caressing her palm.

She smiles at this familiar gesture, half in disbelief of what she is about to do. And when his face glows with a delighted beam, she knows that it is right.

_And then what happened?_

And they all lived happily ever after. 


End file.
